


Best Shot

by Lillyjk



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Phil, Clint has self esteem issues, Clint is tortured but just for a little while, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Not Canon Compliant, clint is a Marine sniper, clint suffers hearing loss, natasha is sneaky, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2390696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillyjk/pseuds/Lillyjk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt fic for halidura who wanted: C/C. Clint in the military in afghanistan, Phil coming as a “civilian” SHIELD Agent to teach strategy and helping out with an op with a terrorist cell with connections to the ten rings? First meeting AU, get together, maybe a hint of DADT/time lapse</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Afghanistan, May 2008

The first thing Clint notices is that the guy in the suit moves like a soldier. His unit has worked with civilian contractors and people from various alphabet agencies before but they’re usually soft under their suits, used to desk jobs and making deals in boardrooms.

This guy is light on his feet and moves with the precise controlled actions of someone who’s worn a uniform as he strips off his suit jacket to reveal a starched white shirt and dark tie topped off with a Kevlar vest. He unsnaps his silver cufflinks and slides them in his pocket before rolling his sleeves up to reveal muscular forearms.

Clint shifts on his feet as the suit, no title given - just Coulson, leans over a set of schematics ignoring everyone in the room. Clint doesn’t know why the fuck he’s here but the longer he waits the more uneasy he gets. His eyes trace over the curve of Coulson’s backside where the tailored slacks pull tight across a firm ass.

"Corporal Barton, how good are you?" When Coulson finally speaks his tone is clipped, no nonsense.

Oh, he can be very good, Clint thinks. He can be very good for this man with the blue eyes and broad shoulders. “Good, sir?” Clint clenches his fist, pushing his nails into his palm as he looks up into Coulson’s eyes. He can’t let himself have those kinds of thoughts. He’d packed that part of himself away when he enlisted.

Coulson’s lips twist like he knows what direction Clint’s thoughts have taken. “How good a shot? Your sergeant says you’re the best he’s got. How good is your best?”

Clint maybe smirks just a little. “I don’t miss, sir.”

"Good. You’re with me then. We leave in ten. I’ll brief you on the way."

…Tbc probably because this got in my head


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If I don't get dead." Clint says. He's been sent out like this before, has come close to not making it back too many times now. His sergeant had never seemed overly concerned either way. Clint’s a fuck-up and not really suited for the Marines, they only keep him around because he’s a good shot. At least that’s what his sergeant likes to tell him.
> 
>  
> 
> Coulson scowls at him. "You won't get dead, Corporal. Do you understand me?"
> 
>  
> 
> Clint shrugs, "I got it. Top priority - make the impossible shot followed by don't get dead."

 

The Humvee is hot, but Clint has spent most of the last fifteen months either hot as hell or freezing his balls off and he'll take the heat any day.  Some kid he doesn't know is driving and Clint's in the back with Coulson staring at a map without a clue about what he's supposed to be looking for.  

Coulson taps at a spot with one long finger, and Clint recognizes a gun callus when he sees it.  

"We'll go on foot from here."  The finger traces a short path across the paper and taps another spot.  For a second Clint imagines that finger tracing across his skin, weaving an elegant trail of heat over his ribs or along his thigh. "It's about two klicks to where you'll take up position."

Coulson pauses and Clint nods because he knows that's what he's expected to do.  

"The target is Omar Moussaf.  He's one of the higher ups in the Ten Rings.  Nasty guy."  Coulson continues.  "You'll only get one crack at him and the shot is pretty much impossible."

"So don't fuck it up," Clint says.

Coulson grins and it transforms his stern face into a movie star handsome one, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.  Something in Clint's gut tightens and he wants nothing more than to make this man smile like that again.  He doesn’t think anybody has ever smiled at him quite that way, like he’s worth something.

"That's right, Corporal.  Don't fuck it up."

Clint is staring at Coulson's mouth, at the way his lips form the word fuck.  He thinks about Coulson whispering it in his ear, maybe "fuck me, Clint" or better yet "I'm going to fuck you, Clint."  He thinks about what it would be like to submit to him, to spread his legs and pull him in so that they’re face to face when Coulson’s moving inside him.  He shifts in the seat, pulling his field pack into his lap to cover what the thoughts do to his dick.  He's pretty sure DADT flies out the window if he pops a woody.

Coulson is watching him and Clint is 95% sure the man has picked up on some of what he's thinking.  The blue eyes are back to being serious.

"I'll be your back-up," he points to another spot on the map.  "I'll be here with eyes on you at all times. If it goes sideways we'll rendezvous back at the drop point."

"If I don't get dead." Clint says. He's been sent out like this before, has come close to not making it back too many times now.  His sergeant had never seemed overly concerned either way.   Clint’s a fuck-up and not really suited for the Marines, they only keep him around because he’s a good shot.  At least that’s what his sergeant likes to tell him.

Coulson scowls at him. "You won't get dead, Corporal.  Do you understand me?"

Clint shrugs, "I got it.  Top priority - make the impossible shot followed by don't get dead."

"Top priority is not fucking up.  That means you complete the mission and make it back for debriefing."  Coulson shoves the map at him. "Now memorize this because we're not taking anything in that's going to leave a paper trail."

“Yes, Sir.”  Clint takes it, letting his fingers brush Coulson's for just an instant.  It sends a little tingle down his spine.  What the hell is it about his man?  Clint’s only known him for a couple of hours, he doesn’t even know his first name, but he wants to make him proud.  He wants to make the impossible shot and not get dead and after that (before that) he wants to go to his knees for him.    

“We’ll be at the drop point in half an hour or so.  If it all goes well, we should be back on base in a few hours,” Coulson smiles at him again and Clint feels his cheeks flush as he turns his attention back to the map.

It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is going to come in little drips and drabbles. Fair warning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint made the impossible shot, and so far he isn't dead, but he's pretty sure the man slowly carving into his side with a knife is going to rectify that sooner or later.

It doesn't go well.

Clint made the impossible shot, and so far he isn't dead, but he's pretty sure the man slowly carving into his side with a knife is going to rectify that sooner or later. 

Clint's arms are tied above him, his shoulders and hands alternating between numbness and feeling like about a million fire ants have decided to set up shop. His feet barely touch the ground, and only if he stands on tiptoes. He's completely naked, save for the dog tags that still hang around his neck.

He hadn't been fast enough to take the shot and get back to the drop point when it, what had Coulson said? Oh yeah, went sideways. He wonders if Coulson made it out. Maybe they've got him strung up in another tent and somebody is cutting him up too. Clint hopes not. He wants to think of Coulson safe (well, as safe as it gets in this godforsaken country) back at base. 

Heck, Coulson is probably jetting back to wherever he came from by now. It's been at least six hours since Clint got captured judging from the way the shadows were growing long. Clint knows that he's an acceptable loss.

The guy working the knife into the slice of skin between his ribs is talking to him. But he's not speaking English. He thinks it's Pashtu maybe, but he can't pick up more than bits and pieces.

"Yeah, I know. American infidel." Clint says before he recites his name, rank and serial number for about the hundredth time. It earns him a vicious twist of the knife. His head is swimming, blood running down his side in rivulets of red.

He wishes the guy would get on with it. Surely they've figured out Clint doesn't know anything and even if he did he wouldn't tell them. He knows how this will play out. 

If he's lucky, they'll behead him. At least that will be quick. Problem is, Clint has never been particularly lucky. More likely they'll torture him for a few days first. He'll probably think fondly of the guy with the knife by the time they get around to hooking some of his more delicate parts up to a car battery.

At least there's nobody back home to mourn him. He thinks that's the worst, worse than the dying. Clint's lost friends here. He's seen the news stories of people back home, devastated by a soldier's death. Women and men crying until their faces are red and snotty, blankeyed little kids who can't comprehend that daddy or mommy won't be coming home.

There's nobody back home to cry over Clint. Maybe some of the guys in his unit will drink a beer on his behalf, but that's more for the uniform than the man in it.

He wonders if Coulson will ever think of him. Remember the kid that fucked up and got dead. Probably not.

Clint shudders as the knife finds a new spot to gouge. The guy with the knife looks pleased.

Clint's thoughts are going a little hazy. Probably the combo of dehydration and blood loss. Either way, he mumbles out his name, rank and serial number again. He's just going to close his eyes now, he thinks. The guy can cut off his eyelids if he wants Clint to see what he's doing.

He drifts like that for a while, only vaguely aware of the sound of automatic gunfire in the distance. He doesn't notice that the cutting has stopped until he gets a hard slap across the face.

"Corporal Barton, are you tracking?" There's a hard body pressed against him and Clint slumps into it when his hands are cut free.

He opens his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell, he's starting to think that there was no Coulson. Maybe Clint got hurt on some other mission and his fucked up mind made the guy up. Surely no real guy can be what Clint remembers – efficient and deadly and able to go from bland to bad ass in a blink.

 

Later, when they've made it back to the relative safety of the base, Clint tries to remember what happened. He's got pain killers and some kind of sedative coursing through him and dull throbbing aches in every knife wound. He's lost most of the hearing in one ear and he can't remember if that was from the torture session or afterward.

 

He's only got bits and snatches of memories.

 

He remembers Coulson with a machine gun, still in that fucking white shirt and kevlar vest. He'd been covered with dust and blood and a little bit of what Clint was sure was brain matter. But he'd still been cool and unflappable.

 

He remembers Coulson's blue eyes. His steady voice in Clint's good ear equal parts, “stay with me” and “hang in there, soldier,” and “goddamn it Barton, you do not have permission to die.” He remembers Coulson half dragging, half-carrying him out of that tent.

 

He doesn't remember how they made it out of the camp, only that Coulson was a bad ass mother fucker who made most of the guys in Clint's unit look like incompetent toddlers. There was a lot of blood, some of it Clint's, most of it from the two dozen or so Ten Rings soldiers Coulson had taken out, and apparently none of it Coulson's.

 

He lays on the gurney waiting for transport out of the active zone to a real hospital (probably Bagram, he thinks) and remembers Coulson came back for him, and that's more than anyone else has ever done.

 

The medic shoots something else into his IV and Clint drifts away wondering if he'll ever see Coulson again.

 

**

 

He spends a month in the hospital.

 

It's not Bagram after all but another facility that nobody will exactly give a name to when Clint asks.

 

No one here wears uniforms but they treat him nice, and one of the nurses makes sure he gets extra ice cream when the food trays come around. Clint's pretty sure he's not in Afghanistan anymore, hell, he's probably not even in the Middle East, because the languages he hears are mostly English, French and Russian. There's no TV and no radio, but they bring a cart by with books and magazines a couple of times a day so when he's well enough he can at least read.

 

Clint knows he should be more concerned about where the fuck he is, but between being happy he's alive and trying to recover from his wounds, he just can't bring himself to care. He does ask about Coulson, but all he gets in response is carefully blanked faces and more ice cream.

 

His footlocker arrives a few days after he does, and even though Clint doesn't have much personal stuff, he's glad to see someone made sure it got to him. The last letter from Barney is in there and even though Barney's been gone three years now, it still feels like a little piece of his brother. His bow is there and one of the old fliers from his circus days and it's all that Clint has left of home.

 

He spends a lot of time flat on his back staring at the ceiling and thinking about Coulson. The man has taken up residence in Clint's mind and it's goddamn ridiculous that Clint is obsessing over somebody he doesn't even know. Somebody he's never going to see again. Somebody he spent less than a day with. It's like he's fucking imprinted on the man like a baby duck. But _he came back for me_ , Clint thinks, and that starts him down the rabbit hole again.

 

He's two weeks into his hospital stay when they tell him that the hearing loss is permanent and fit him with the hearing aid. It's tiny and sleek and pretty much unnoticeable and it doesn't look like any hearing aid Clint's ever seen, not that he'd ever paid much attention before.

 

He knows permanent hearing loss, even if it's mostly correctable with his new super duper hearing aid, means his Marine days are over. It scares him that he feels relief more than anything else. His ability with a gun and a bow (though the military never let him use it) are the only skills he has. And won't his old CO be glad to see him go, Clint thinks, good ole fuck-up Barton finally out of action.

 

The day after he gets the news about his hearing loss, they finally let him out of bed. His knife wounds, while serious, are healing well enough that he can start physical therapy. The redhead that takes him through his exercises is as mean as she is beautiful and Clint hates her for the first few sessions.

 

Her name is Natasha and she makes him hurt almost as bad as the guy with the knife, but Clint can admit that his range of motion is even better than it was before, after a week of two-a-day sessions. She doesn't talk much and answers every question with a question and calls him Puppy about half the time. When he pushes too hard one day and pulls stitches loose, she cusses at him in Russian and smacks the back of his head with her palm.

 

Clint kind of digs her. She treats him like her bratty kid brother the same way Barney used to and it makes Clint smile more than he has in a long time. She scowls at him when he smiles.

 

When he asks her about Coulson the first time her face doesn't go blank but she still doesn't answer his questions. She chucks him under his chin and tells him to get back to work. When he asks again she narrows her eyes and cuts the session short.

 

He doesn't ask her anymore after that.

 

Hell, he's starting to think that there was no Coulson. Maybe Clint got hurt on some other mission and his fucked up mind made the guy up. Surely no real guy can be what Clint remembers – efficient and deadly and able to go from bland to bad ass in a blink.

 

At the beginning of his fourth week in the hospital he wakes up to find Coulson sitting in a chair in the corner of his room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson leans in close, his hand gripping the rail of Clint's bed hard enough that his knuckles go white. “Yeah, Clint.” Coulson pauses and Clint realizes that it's the first time Coulson has called him anything other than Corporal or Barton. He likes the way his name sounds in that calm, steady voice. He likes the way those unwavering blue eyes seem to take in every detail and don't shy away from his own. “ A handler to make sure that you are taken care of so you can fulfill your missions. No going into the field with sub-par equipment or shitty information. No worrying that nobody's got your back. No worrying that nobody's going to come in after you if things go sideways. You come to work for SHIELD and I'll be your handler. You'll be mine to take care of. Would you like that, Clint? Would you like me to take care of you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so hey I'm still alive and plan on slowly but surely finishing up all these WIPs. Life has been a real bitch the last six months or so and I've been suffering some major writer's block which thankfully seems to be diminishing. Enjoy.

 

He opens his mouth to speak and then realizes that he doesn't know what to say. Does he tell the guy to fuck off? His mission left Clint partially deaf and with no future now that being a Marine isn't an option. Or does he say thank you because in his whole crummy life Coulson is the only one who ever came after him? Clint can't quite believe Coulson is really there, halfway thinks he's still asleep and this is a dream.

 

“They tell me you're recovering well, better than expected.” Coulson leans forward in his chair, his cool blue eyes roaming over Clint. “The hearing loss, while permanent, is correctable with your hearing aide.”

 

So, they're just going to ignore the whole thing about Coulson being MIA and nobody answering his questions then. Clint shifts under the other man's direct gaze, suddenly self-conscious about the new scars scattered over his bare chest. He's clad only in a pair of scrub pants and he's pushed the covers down to the end of the bed in the night.

 

“Yes, Sir.” He finally says with a nod. “Moving a little stiffer than usual, but my range of motion is actually better than it was before. The physical therapist is a hardass, but she knows her stuff. She's just a tiny little thing but she's vicious.”

 

Coulson quirks his lips, not quite a smile. “Yes, Nat has used a few colorful words to describe you as well. I'm glad you get along so well. It'll make things easier in the long run.”

 

Yeah, Clint supposes it's good that he gets along with his physical therapist but he's not sure why the long run is important. There's something here he's missing. “The doc says I'll be good to go in another week or so.” He narrows his eyes, “Although nobody will tell me exactly where I'm at or where I might be going.”

 

“About that,” Coulson runs a finger along the rail of Clint's bed, and Clint's eyes are drawn to his hands. They're gorgeous, slim-fingered and elegant where Clint's seem rough hewn and oversized in comparison. Deadly though, even a month gone and about a million doses of morphine later, Clint can remember how Coulson's hands were a strange hybrid of Clint's salvation and the damnation of his captors.

 

He realizes he's staring at Coulson's hands and that the other man has gone silent only when Coulson clears his throat. Clint feels a dull flush start to creep up his cheeks and forces his gaze back to Coulson's face. “Sorry. The meds make me zone out sometimes.” He'd been off pain meds for almost a week and the only thing he's still taking is a low dose antibiotic as a precaution against infection. Clint's pretty sure that Coulson knows that from the little half smile he gives him but he doesn't call him on it and the moment passes.

 

“About that,” Coulson says again and this time Clint keeps his eyes on his face. “You were wasted in the Marines. I know that's not even an option for you now which probably gives me an unfair advantage. The shot you made should have been impossible. I did a little digging,” the way he says it lets Clint know that whatever secrets he might have are secret no longer. A little digging is some kind of alphabet agency code for _we know everything about you_. “You're deadly with any kind of gun but your weapon of choice is a bow.”

 

Clint let out a ragged little laugh, “Yeah, but the Marines aren't too keen on neolithic weapons.” God, how many times had his CO cracked a joke about Clint and his bow?

 

Coulson frowned, “More's the pity as the relative silence of a bow is especially suited for active war zones.” He continued, “You are at a facility maintained and operated by the agency I work for. I had you transported here from your base for treatment.”

 

Clint held up a hand to stop him, “Look, can we cut to the chase here? I'm sure you've got some speech all worked up but the truth of the matter is I've been waiting for someone to tell me what the hell was going on for about a month now.”

 

Coulson did smile then, the smile that Clint remembered seeing in the Humvee that made his heart beat speed up. “Barton, I want you to come work with me. SHIELD can use a man with your unique talents and frankly, you can use an employer who gives a shit whether you make it out alive or not.”

 

Clint's hand dropped back on the bed, his mind spinning. “SHIELD? I didn't think you guys really existed. You were just something the conspiracy theorists dreamed up. Shadowy government agency and all that, like the men in black or something.”

 

Coulson's smile goes a notch wider and Clint finds himself grinning back like a damn fool despite himself. What is it about this man that's gotten under his skin? He wants to be on the receiving end of that smile as often as possible. “We're pretty shadowy, and there are a lot of black suits.” The corners of Coulson's eyes are crinkling like he's holding back a laugh, “And wait until you meet Director Fury. I won't spoil it for you by trying to describe him, but he does a whole new spin on the black suit thing.”

 

“So, umm.” God, Clint just wants to say yes to whatever Coulson's offering but he should ask some questions or something shouldn't he? “What exactly would I be doing?”

 

“We'd bring you on as muscle to start, primarily sniper duties to make use of your unique talents.” Coulson is watching him closely, the amusement gone from his face, replaced by something unreadable. “But I think with training you could do more. You would be paired up with another SHIELD agent most of the time and whether as a team or on your own, you'd have a handler.”

 

“A handler?” Clint's mouth has gone dry. There's something heavy in the air that wasn't there before.

 

Coulson leans in close, his hand gripping the rail of Clint's bed hard enough that his knuckles go white. “Yeah, Clint.” Coulson pauses and Clint realizes that it's the first time Coulson has called him anything other than Corporal or Barton. He likes the way his name sounds in that calm, steady voice. He likes the way those unwavering blue eyes seem to take in every detail and don't shy away from his own. “ A handler to make sure that you are taken care of so you can fulfill your missions. No going into the field with sub-par equipment or shitty information. No worrying that nobody's got your back. No worrying that nobody's going to come in after you if things go sideways. You come to work for SHIELD and I'll be your handler. You'll be mine to take care of. Would you like that, Clint? Would you like me to take care of you?”

 

Coulson's words make Clint's dick start to stiffen in his pants, make his cheeks flush and the dark little kernel of need in his belly start to bloom and grow. There's no hiding what this man does to him, not when he's stretched out on a hospital bed in nothing but a thin pair of scrub pants. Fuck, Clint should be embarrassed, should be mortified, but he can't bite back the words that rise up so easily in response. “Yes, Sir.” He says softly, and then again a bit louder. “Yes, Sir. I'd like that a lot.”

 

Coulson just gives him another quick smile and then gets to his feet. “I'll send an information packet around in the morning. Read everything thoroughly before signing on the dotted lines and if you have any questions you can ask Natasha.” The only sign that he knows how he's affected Clint is the way his eyes drop for a moment to the swell of Clint's burgeoning erection where it presses against his pants.

 

“My physical therapist?” Clint's head is spinning. Did he imagine what just passed between them? He doesn't think so. But maybe his head is still fucked up because why would Coulson be telling him to talk to his PT about secret agency stuff?

 

“Your partner.” Coulson calls over his shoulder as he heads toward the door.

 

“Oh.” Clint says, because _oh_ that would explain a lot. “Yes, Sir.” He can't seem to look away from Coulson's ass as the other man walks away. 

 

“And, Clint,” Coulson pauses in the doorway, his body is turned to the side and from this angle Clint can see that he's not the only one affected by what passed between them. The heavy line of Coulson's dick is straining against his suit pants.

 

“Yes, Sir?” Clint manages. It makes Clint's mouth water, makes him want to climb out of his bed and sink to his knees and see just how hands-on his handler is going to be. He can't tear his eyes away from that bulge, can't hold back the breathy little sigh of want when Coulson rocks back on his heels, the motion making his cock even more prominent. Jesus, the thing must be huge.

 

“Rest up. I'll want you at your best when you're serving under me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
